Author Archives: Paul

About Paul

Retired, I spend my time on commissions for lyrics, writing words for singing. Choral works, congregational hymns, school songs - anything that allows people to sing together. Over one hundred published works and many broadcasts and CDs. An always-present liking for photography and pictures of all kinds was employed for a few years of freelancing and nearly 20 years of art-directing Kodak promotional print media.

Sir John Betjeman

Back in 1982 I decided I just had to meet John Betjeman. I wondered how I might achieve this. Then I discovered that Lady Penelope was giving one of her lectures on Hindu temples at Lacock Abbey. It seemed the perfect opportunity. So I went, and took with me a small gift for him – a recently-published book of mine – the first ever – entitled A Victorian View of Old England, a compilation of Victorian text and engravings of English scenes.

Penelope finished her talk, and I approached her. She was surrounded by a chattering group, happily answering questions in her high, clear and faintly edgy voice. I greeted her, handed her the book and asked if she would be kind enough to give it to Sir John with my compliments. ‘Oh, he’ll like that. Thank you,’ she smiled. I said it would be lovely to meet him one day. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘But you MUSTN’T STAY MORE THAN TEN MINUTES. D’you understand?’ Capitals were her way of stressing phrases in her letters and it seems only right to use them when quoting her. I reassured her and said ten minutes would be fine. She pulled out a small notebook and wrote in it. ‘I’ll arrange a meeting for you with his secretary.’ A day or two later she rang me to tell me to go to No 29 Radnor Walk. Could I manage August 19th? Somewhere round about 11.30? I most certainly could.

Why I didn’t discover Betjeman’s poetry before I was forty I can’t imagine. But when I did it came as a revelation. In his free use of strict scansion and rhyme his disregard for the lofty poetry-world critics was made clear. And his discovery of the funny in the obscure, his trick of capturing the extraordinary within the ordinary, his skill in communicating all this, made him stand alone. From that day onwards I blatantly imitated his style.

On August 19, 1982, I took a day’s holiday. My early feelings of inadequacy and my father’s ready confirmation of it came to me as I rang the doorbell of No 29 Radnor Walk. Little old me, going into the home of the Poet Laureate, now into the hallway, now into the small front room, seeing him sitting there in an easy chair, turning his head stiffly towards me. The three full-blown strokes he had suffered and advancing Parkinson’s made it difficult for him to smile.

We talked and talked and drank champagne. After half an hour or so his then secretary, Liz Moore, had to go out for ten minutes. She asked me if I would mind looking after him. The moment after she left, the phone rang. I reached for the phone, and in doing so knocked my glass of Champagne – the best Moët – on to the floor and saw it soaking the carpet. As I finished taking the message and was ringing off I caught sight of him looking across at me, eyes alight with boyish merriment.

‘Just help yourself to more,’ he said. ‘Oh, this is fun!’  He knew how to make idiots happy.

A couple on minutes later the phone rang again. It was one of the papers. What was Sir John’s reaction upon hearing that Naseby Field, the scene of the Battle of Naseby, was to have a road built through it? He thought for a moment.

‘Tell them it’s like cutting a man in half,’ he said. Then, after a pause and raising a hand – ‘Alive!’

And he sat thinking about it. I wrote a poem later, describing his gloom at that moment. John Murray once said that John was never gloomy. ‘Melancholic, yes. Never gloomy.’ It’s a nice distinction, but Jock should know, having been his publisher since 1937. Perhaps the two of them have discussed it by now, up there in some sunlit heavenly chapel.

John looked up, and pointed. He said someone had given him a painting. He was pointing to where it lay, still rolled up, and asked me to look at it. ‘What kind of mount d’you think it ought to have?’ he asked. It was of a tree, an apple tree. As I looked at it I found myself feeling somehow ‘inside’ the picture – a trick of the over-excited mind, I suppose. I told him how I felt it should look.

After unwittingly breaking Penelope’s rule by an hour and a quarter I asked him if I might just take a picture of him, with Archibald and Jumbo on his lap. Jumbo was his elephant, whom he had relegated to Number Two in his affections. He agreed instantly so Liz Moore went upstairs to his room to get them. When he had them on his lap I snapped away nervously. After I’d finished he sat looking at Archibald, his bear, murmuring, ‘Archie, Archie. You’re alive. I know you’re alive. You must be alive.’

Liz said, ‘Time to go, Sir John.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I have to go and have lunch with Ozzy.’

‘That’s Osbert Lancaster,’ said Liz. She left the room and returned, bringing in his wheelchair. ‘Now, would you give me a hand?’ She showed me how to lift him, and I took hold of Archibald and Jumbo, laid them aside, put one arm round him and one underneath him and together we lifted him into his wheelchair.

On the way back to Sloane Square Station I felt a little lightheaded, almost as though I were floating above the pavement. I stopped at a little restaurant and had a cup of tea and a bun. The only table with an empty chair was occupied by a mother and her small son in his school uniform. He was being treated to a cream tea. I asked if she would mind if I sat there and she smiled her consent, with some pleasantry or other.

Still slightly intoxicated, more by the miracle I had just experienced than the plentiful Champagne, I sat down, beamed at them and said, ‘I’ve just been to see John Betjeman.’

Pictures, not snaps: 5

Screen shot 2013-12-18 at 11.56.30

If your subject is moving across your frame, leave more space in front of the subject, so that he/she/they appear to be moving into the picture, and not out. Think of it like this: the guy needs space to move into. Or imagine you’re the one who’s running. Would you like to have a stone wall a few inches in front of you?

If you just don’t get it, have a look at this version of the same picture.Figure running

See what I mean? All wrong, isn’t it.

Charles Wesley: two thoughts

I‘m afraid, for this bit of fun, the reader has to know something about Charles Wesley, the English hymnwriter of the 19th century, and in particular his love for – and his extraordinary skill in using – the English language. In his well-loved hymn, ‘O thou who camest from above’ he uses the word ‘inextinguishable’. At first sight it looks unsingable. Then you find that, with absolutely no effort, you’ve just sung it. Wonderful.

Mr Wesley, of hymnnody, King,
Once did a remarkable thing;
    Is six syllablesful
Yet it's awfully easy to sing.

And, in passing:

Charles Wesley liked to use the pun
   But most of all the metaphor;
And managing the two in one
   I’m sure he felt much better for.


words ©paul wigmore 2013

Pictures, not snaps: 4

Leaning image

Hold the camera straight. A picture that’s leaning sideways a bit is thumbing its nose at whoever’s viewing it. Of course, if you’re shooting an ‘atmosphere’ picture for special effect, hold it as crookedly as your fancy demands.

Straightening the camera takes only one second longer. Even if you are pointing the camera slightly upwards or downwards, so that things go fan-shaped, spend that second in straightening the camera.

And, by the way, that goes for snaps, too.

Kids these days

Your retirement age is coming within sight? Right. You’re just the age I’m looking for. Please think back to your childhood. On those frequent occasions when you waylaid your elders and asked them for help with a toy, a gadget of some sort, did you ever have any doubts about their ability to get it working? Or, at least, that they would ‘know someone who can’. I think I see you shaking your head. No. When we were kids, grownups, although capable of being a bit of a nuisance, could do everything. Everyone knew that.

‘Dad, this train won’t work. The engine’s got jammed, see. . .’    ‘Grandma, I can’t remember how to do this bit. Would you, um. . . ?’    ‘Uncle George, see, I’ve got this bit right but it doesn’t. . . ‘

As we saw our grandchildren growing out of their infancy we expected to be able to return a few favours. In childhood we had been the learners; now, we were looking forward to being the teachers. But these children, silently, unobtrusively, were beginning to turn things upside down. Gradually, we realised that the pleas for help now came from our own mouths. These young, quick-witted, genned-up know-alls of eight or nine or ten were just about running things for us. And slowly we have come to terms with the strange situation. We sit and stare at our computers and get close to tears of frustration when the wretched thing does the opposite of what we intended. Things vanish from our screen for no apparent reason. We thump the desk and hurt ourselves.

Then, in comes the kid. ‘OK. Can I sit in your chair, please?’ They sit. With a little smile on their sweet faces they rattle away on the keys and swipe and click and whistle contentedly. They jump up. You thank them. The job is done.

One worrying thing remains: that little smile.